Pancake Batter
by SaraBarns
Summary: Getting stuck isn't fun. Canada compares cooking pancakes to being depressed in a last-ditch attempt to make Prussia understand what he's going through with his depression. Because every time Prussia says "I just need time to think," it hurts something deep down inside Canada that can't be fixed with a "Let's pretend it never happened."


"_I'm sorry, I can't."_

"_Come on, Birdie, it'll be fun."_

"_Gil… please don't."_

"_What's up with you? You don't want to do anything."_

"_I'm sorry… I just…"_

"_Just what? You're being a bad sport."_

"_Gil, please just drop it. I don't want to. Okay? You're making a scene."_

"_No, you're the one making a scene. Just come on! Everyone else is doing it."_

"_No."_

"_Birdie."_

"_Gilbert, I said no!"_

"_Fine then!"_

He doesn't understand… he never does. I can't explain it. He doesn't care that I'm bisexual, he cares that I'm _depressed_. How is that fair?

It's always about sexuality… everyone says that'll be the biggest issue. People might not accept you for your sexuality.

My best friend accepts that… and not that I'm depressed?

It's a medical condition.

It's worse than having a homophobic best friend.

I expected that.

But whenever I get depressed, Gil runs away, says he needs more time, and needs his space.

It's like he's mad at me.

I don't understand why he's mad at me.

It's exactly like having a homophobic best friend. I can't think of anything better to compare this to.

He doesn't understand. He doesn't accept that I can't help it. He says I can make myself happy.

How can I… make myself happy?

How can an addict quit cold turkey when their dealer keeps bringing them more drugs?

How can an alcoholic stop drinking when their family keeps providing the liquor?

It's not a mentality… it's an addiction.

It's the feeling I get when everything is going wrong. When anything is going wrong. When someone doesn't remember me. When someone doesn't listen to what I have to say.

It's like stepping in a public hot tub before remembering there are bacteria in it because it's kept so warm all the time. Once you're in it's already too late. The bacteria are coating your body, no matter how quickly you try to wash them off.

There will always be that annoying patron trying to schmooze you into buying something from their company before you get out of the hot tub. There will always be that elevator that takes forever to get to your floor. There will always be that door that gets stuck five different times before your key card actually works. There will always be the freezing air from that air conditioning unit the housekeeping team always leaves on. There will always be the need to pull out the clothes you're going to wear next so you don't have to go hopping around, naked and wet, to find them.

There's no quick solution to the hot tub bacteria. You can't go straight from the hot tub to the shower no matter how much you want to.

This is… well, it's the same way.

How many ways can I explain this to make him see it from my perspective?

Gil… maybe you'll understand this one better.

You can't put all the ingredients for pancakes in a bowl in no particular order, and then just dump it in the pan.

Pancakes take time and care to make, once they've been started.

When I get sad… I start making pancakes.

Even if you come over when I'm in the middle of making them…

I can't stop just to entertain you.

I'm not in a permanently good mood… and I can't help that. You can't always be either, so hopefully you'll understand this…

I can't stop making pancakes once I start. It's… it's an addiction, I guess you could say.

I know you get upset when I… when it seems like I ignore you in favor of making them, but…

You have to understand I physically can't stop.

It would be like jumping off a horse mid-jump. Stopping a sketch with half the subject drawn. Ending a novel halfway along. Reading half a book. Typing half a paper. Sewing half a dress. Configuring half a computer system. Cleaning half your cat's litter. Feeding your dog half as much food. Installing half a lighting system.

Do you… see what I mean yet?

I have to mix the ingredients… not too hard… sometimes I need help.

But if someone refuses to help, it hurts. Then I slow down because my motivation has dropped even lower.

On the other end of the scale, if they stir too hard… it destroys the batter and I have to start all over again.

You… you never help me stir.

I get that, but… I just wish you wouldn't leave the house whenever I start to cook.

Now of course, this is one huge metaphor… we both know you love my pancakes. Maybe they're a symbol for my writing, maybe they're for the way you love my smile… supposedly… but I feel like… you (metaphorically) don't like… how I've gotten where I am now. You don't like how the pancakes are made.

The cooking process is a part of me, though, Gil.

It's a part of my past.

I can't get rid of it.

There are no pancakes… there is no _me_ without the cooking process. There is no _me_ without the darkness in my past.

Maybe it's easy for you… but we've had different upbringings and different pasts.

_Very_ different upbringings and pasts.

I know how frustrated you get when I just seem to… give up, but you have to understand, Gil, you have to… it's not me.

It's me stepping into quicksand… stepping into pancake batter. And not being able to get out.

So I don't socialize with Francis and Antonio when they come over too…

Gil, I _can't_.

I'm not comfortable with them.

I feel like you'll choose them over me.

Everyone always chooses whoever's not me.

I'm just waiting for you to do the same.

Can you blame me?

People forget about me, Gil.

People forget I'm there, they forget I have things to say too.

Nobody hears me. I try to speak up… but it's not that simple.

I'm a naturally quiet person… and I'm trying so hard to speak up more, but people still don't hear me.

It's discouraging.

And I'm not a people person as it is… being around Francis and Antonio… it's awkward for me.

They're your friends, Gil. Not mine.

Do you… see what I'm saying here?

You never ask if I even want to be closer to them…

You just assume I do and get frustrated when it seems like I don't try.

They don't include me, and I'm used to it. They're not comfortable with me, I'm not comfortable with them. Childhood with Francis was no walk in the park, and Antonio doesn't even known my name.

I make pancakes when I'm uncomfortable, or even just really stressed.

Call it compulsive, if you will… but it's like a safe zone.

It's familiar. Simple. Lonely. Safe.

Addicting.

Once I slip in…

I can't slip out until I'm finished.

And it takes different amounts of time each time.

But even when I'm done… it doesn't leave.

The… the recipe, I guess you could call it, it's still inside.

I just want you to… to see this for how it is.

Is this helping at all?

I just don't want you to be that homophobic or biphobic best friend of mine.

Are you disgusted by my inability to feel happy all the time?

Are you upset that I can't handle social situations as well as you can?

I knew something like this would happen eventually… you'd get sick of it.

You'd grow tired of my negativity.

Of my lack of any sort of confidence.

Of me.

B-But I hope this… helped something. Just a little.

I want you to understand, Gil.

I want to be able to trust you.

I can trust you with everything else…

I want to be able to trust you in one of the places I'm the most vulnerable.

I can't gain your trust if you walk away before you even try to catch me.

"_Birdie, stop."_

You're saying I shouldn't fall in the first place…

"_I can't see why you're being like this."_

Well it's hard to be a klutz.

"_I know it's hard for you, but…"_

You're so confident in everything you do… it's easy to say "Catch yourself," when you've yet to stumble.

"_You should try to make yourself happy."_

I've fallen down the metaphorical stairs. You know that.

"_I think there are _always_ ways to make the best of a situation."_

I just can't… comprehend how you can keep being so… cold about it.

"_Mattie… I need some time to think about this."_

I'm not asking a lot, Gil.

"_We'll talk tomorrow, okay, Birdie? I mean it. I need some space."_

I don't need you to help me up… I've done it myself before, and I can manage again.

I don't need you to hold me and tell me it'll be okay… because you won't know what I'm feeling when you say it.

I just want you to be there when I get back up on my own. Tell a joke. Talk about the weather.

Just don't leave me alone.

S-So… that's all.

I… I hope this helped… just a little.

Just please don't hate me for what I can't help on my own.

* * *

**A/N:** Once again, I'm sorry, I know I should be updating all my other stuff. I just can't right now. The past four days have been total shit for me, and I had to try to write this out to... try to get it off my chest. Long and painful story short, my Gilbert... isn't comprehending my depression. It sucks hard balls. So... I'm not telling her this is here, but if she happens to find it... that's awesome. To everyone else, thank you so much for reading. I hope I conveyed what I was trying to get across. The story pretty much explains everything on my mind, so I don't have a reason to ramble.


End file.
